


Invisible

by pearbean



Category: Hair - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-25
Updated: 2009-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearbean/pseuds/pearbean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's raining in the park, and Claude and Berger find something to pass the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invisible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [watery_weasel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/watery_weasel/gifts).



The park at night, it's almost pleasant, as long as it's dry. It's raining tonight. The rain drives the tribe undercover, and they end up like driftwood under the arches, or rustling like dead leaves into the bandstand.

Sometimes they are all there, and the arches are crowded, but tonight they're just two, Claude and Berger in their usual haunt, ghosts. When it rains, Claude's invisibility weighs on him, something that should be so weightless. Claude feels heavy, like he's putting down roots, deep into the cold earth and sinking away like rainwater. Or maybe just so that he can stay here, anchored, without drifting.

The ground that he's sitting on under the arches is dry, but the stone at Claude's back is cool like the air is. He inhales a breath of it, smelling damp soil, rain, and old leaves. He tips his head back, pressing the crown of his head into the way the curve of the arch begins.

Berger is smoking a joint, sitting cross-legged under the highest point of the arch, looking into the rain. All Claude can see is the curve of his back, one angular knee, his long hair curling over his shoulders. It's gray outside, the sky and the park all blurring into one. Berger's jacket is a splash of rainbow color against it.

Whatever Berger is looking at - Claude never really tries to work out exactly what; Berger is Berger and he could be watching anything - seems to lose its appeal. He stands up smoothly and spins back towards Claude on one foot. He throws back his head to breathe out a plume of smoke towards the vaulted stone above them. They both watch it for a second, dissolving into the air.

Berger brings his head back upright slowly, like it's heavy, turning to fix dark, soft, unfocused eyes on Claude.

"You want some?" Berger says to Claude, lazily, taking three steps over to him, "It's good."

Claude shakes his head by rolling it back and forth. It isn't the first joint of the night. He already knows it's good, he can already feel it humming under his skin and round his eyes, loosening the tense, worried set of his shoulders. He doesn't really want to think, doesn't want to move, doesn't want to change a thing about being here, sitting on the cold ground.

Berger sits down close beside him, the way he always does, so they're pressed hard together from neck to knee. He raises the joint again, the movement jogging Claude's shoulder. Reminding Claude that he's there, as if he could forget.

"Sure?" Berger asks, this time languidly. Claude feels like he would like to live in vocabulary that only includes the letter l. Instead, he nods. He's sure, although he's not sure about what.

Berger leans into him, and rests his sharp chin on Claude's shoulder. Presses the damp, warmed end of the blunt to Claude's lips anyway. Claude moves his head away, turning instead towards Berger's face, which looks strange this close to, too many details to take in at once.

Claude can see as Berger's eyes sweep from feature to feature over his face, sees where the gaze pauses on his mouth, his eyes. "You're wasted," Berger comments delightedly, with a soft snort of warm smoke-scented breath across his cheek.

It's warmer with Berger's chest pressed to his side, and Claude allows the last vestiges of his tension to drain away. He leans into the warmth of Berger's body and closes his eyes. Berger presses closer in return, his nose and lips trailing up behind Claude's ear, and it feels to Claude as though they're merging into one person. Feels like that might not be such a bad thing, not with Berger. He lets himself melt a little, goes soft at the edges.

Berger pulls back and pats a hand on the back of Claude's neck, and gets up. Claude wants to protest, but now his eyes are shut and things just seem kinder in the dark. Berger won't go far, he's trapped tonight under the arches with Claude by the rain. Then Berger settles over him, straddled across his legs, pressed chest to chest, hips to hips like a Berger-blanket, insulating.

A hot palm cradles his cheek, fingertips stroking up into his hair at the temples, a thumb drifting over his cheekbone and across the soft delicate skin beneath his eye. "Open up," Berger says, and Claude doesn't know if Berger means his eyes or his mouth (or his mind - isn't that open enough already?), so he opens both a little way as Berger tips his head back further with a press of his fingers at the back of Claude's neck.

Berger always works best with an audience, and so he plays it up as he takes another drag, unconsciously fluid in the arch of his spine and the curve of his throat. He holds the breath, paused for a moment before he leans in, Claude drifting to meet as always like fog, maybe. Insubstantial but present. Something like inevitability, Claude supposes. Berger parts his lips, and presses them, open mouthed and soft to Claude's. His hand tightens on Claude's jaw so that Claude can't pull away, soothing with another rub of the thumb at the same time.

Claude hums, a soft 'Mmm' of appreciation, or possibly relief. Staring into Berger's too-close eyes, heavy-lidded and dark as he breathes hot dry smoke into Claude's lungs like it's oxygen. Turning Claude back for a short spell from a ghost into a man.

Berger pulls away with a flick of his tongue across Claude's mouth and sits up, grinning, stubbing out the last of the joint on the hard earth beside Claude's left hip. Palm still in contact with Claude's face, thumb still stroking absently over the ridge of Claude's cheekbone, a grounding touch that for once Claude doesn't feel like he needs at the moment.

Claude breathes out Berger's breath and waits, suffocating, until the next one.


End file.
